 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
250
LII.
The sudden breeze sigh'd past. “Delicious wind
That fans my dying cheek, my dying mind;
Shall I not come upon thee like a stream
Of music round my love, a gentle dream
Resting upon his eyelids; while I tell
All that the living bosom shrank to feel;
And hear him answer, all his spirit hear,
And love without a blush, without a fear?
Me he will never know; unlovely grave,
Thou soon shalt hide the heart his victim gave:
And he will come in pride, and pomp, and bloom,
And scorn the dust, to which his look was doom.
Scorn it, oh, no, his generous tear will fall
For the lost wretch who gave him heart, life, all:
For he was all to her; the lowly flower
Hid in the shadow of the lordly tower,
Uncheer'd, yet shrinking at the slightest blast
That o'er its grandeur swept; still clinging fast,
Till at its foot 't was wither'd! Heart of mine,
A human idol was within thy shrine!
And for it thou wert stricken; dust to dust;
The vestal sinn'd in soul; the blow was just.
She was abandon'd to wild fantasies;
She loved, she dream'd, she fail'd, she fled, she dies.”
That fans my dying cheek, my dying mind;
Shall I not come upon thee like a stream
Of music round my love, a gentle dream
Resting upon his eyelids; while I tell
All that the living bosom shrank to feel;
And hear him answer, all his spirit hear,
And love without a blush, without a fear?
Me he will never know; unlovely grave,
Thou soon shalt hide the heart his victim gave:
And he will come in pride, and pomp, and bloom,
And scorn the dust, to which his look was doom.
Scorn it, oh, no, his generous tear will fall
For the lost wretch who gave him heart, life, all:
For he was all to her; the lowly flower
Hid in the shadow of the lordly tower,
Uncheer'd, yet shrinking at the slightest blast
That o'er its grandeur swept; still clinging fast,
Till at its foot 't was wither'd! Heart of mine,
A human idol was within thy shrine!
251
The vestal sinn'd in soul; the blow was just.
She was abandon'd to wild fantasies;
She loved, she dream'd, she fail'd, she fled, she dies.”
Her voice was gone. Against the statue's knee
Back fell her head,—like wax, her pale, cold hands
Dropp'd at her sides, as if her mortal sands
Were run. Sebastian bounded from his tree,
With trembling haste the sable veil removed,
And saw—his lost, his lovely, his beloved!
Back fell her head,—like wax, her pale, cold hands
Dropp'd at her sides, as if her mortal sands
Were run. Sebastian bounded from his tree,
With trembling haste the sable veil removed,
And saw—his lost, his lovely, his beloved!
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |